


we pull apart the dark

by sunteaflower



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-05-21 01:29:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14905892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunteaflower/pseuds/sunteaflower
Summary: Olivia knew two things: that man was holding a preschooler, and she was pretty sure he was a serial killer. She was going to do the dumb thing and get out of her car.This started out as a simple, "how did Matt get the kidnapped boy home in episode two?" And turned into, "if they just talked to each other jfc." So now here I am, adding in another character with the express long-term goal of fixing season two (and the short-term goal of adding to the Matt Murdock/OC tag).





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This fic may eventually up the rating (far, far down the line) but I've never been one to write smut before, so I make no promises.
> 
> Chapter Song: Meet Me in the Woods- Lord Huron

Olivia regretted her life choices exactly three minutes before running into the creepy masked man. She knew it was exactly three minutes, because she'd called her friend as soon as she'd mistakenly turned onto the one-way street ( _yeah, it's me. So listen, I'm a complete idiot and got myself lost. I'm stuck on a one-way right now, so it's going to be a couple- holy shit, is that a kid? I'll call you back, no, no, don't worry, I'll be fine_ ) and had, for unknowable reasons, looked at the call time before hanging up. Exactly three minutes.

She'd spent her blissful black-clad-murderer free minutes regretting that she'd taken the back way. At two thirty in the morning. It served her right, really, for not knowing her own city well enough. So instead of rushing off to her friend's place like she'd intended, she was stuck on this stupid frigging one-way, enjoying the view of abandoned warehouses, and trying very very hard not to worry about all the illegal activities happening in said warehouses.

And just as she was starting to relax (she could finally see the end of the road, hallelujah!) her headlights lit him up. Just barely, really, but she could see him all the same. In all his serial killer glory. Holding onto a preschooler. The sight of it stopped her heart, and the ice that ran down her spine had her immediately slamming on her breaks and ending the call with her friend.

It seemed as if they were all surprised, because none of them moved. She gripped her steering wheel, white-knuckled, and stared out her windshield at the man bathed in her headlights. He stood very very still, as if he thought she wouldn't see him if he just didn't move.

He was heaving great lungfuls of air that looked incredibly painful. It was still early enough in the year to get cold, so each breath came pouring out of him like steam, curling luminously around his head. His left hand was clenched, and her throat closed up at the sight of blood dripping down it. The mask covered the entire top half of his face, and it was almost more disconcerting than the blood covering the lower half. The image he painted made her heart rate go from frozen-in-shock to launch-myself-into-space.

_Pycho killer, qu'est-ce que c'est._

She really should get out of here. This was no doubt a one-way ticket to murder town.

But she couldn't, because plastered to the entire right side of the man was a preschooler. She didn't notice any obvious injuries, but that didn't mean there wouldn't be any in the future, if she drove away now. She wouldn't be able to live with herself if she did that. So, incredibly reluctantly, she opened her car door.

"Hey there, you ok kiddo?" Her voice wavered just slightly, but her hands didn't shake as she lifted them up into the air - _I'm not armed, I'm not a threat, we're all good here_.

She left her car door open and slid forward a step, slowly, cautiously. Her heartbeat was just one giant throb throughout her body, but her hands were steady and her legs still carried her. _We're all good here, we're all good here, we're all good here._

The little boy buried his face in the man's throat, and his small hands grabbed at the black shirt beneath them.

"What's your name?" She asked, sliding forward one step, two steps, before the man went unnaturally still and she froze.

"Mica," the boy mumbled, voice hoarse like he'd been crying. She bit the inside of her cheek, her fingers curling slightly in an effort to control her anger.

"Mica? That's a great name, I do a story time with a boy named Mica," she stopped her herself, cursed- _fuck_ \- under her breath. Now this psycho would be able to figure out where she worked. After all, how many places in Hell's Kitchen offered regular story times? Exactly one- the library she worked at.

"So, Mica, are you headed home? Because I can give you a ride there, a car is a lot faster than walking." She held her breath, sure this was where the man would take off with the kid. She widened her stance in preparation to chase after him. Not that she'd be able to take him in a fight, if she ever caught up to him. But, well, she couldn't leave this kid, she just couldn't.

"Can we?" Mica asked, still buried in the man's throat.

The man continued to hold himself eerily still, and stared at her for what felt like ages. Finally, he lifted his left hand (and she absolutely did not flinch) and placed it carefully against Mica's head. He made no further move, and didn't say anything, just stared at her.

"Why are you all the way out here?" She asked next, but even as she said it she noticed the warehouse behind them. It wasn't close, but if she squinted she could just make out a broken-in door and a couple large lumps laying on the ground. Something about it gnawed at the back of her brain.

"I don't know," Mica said, tears clear in his voice, and the man's hand buried into Mica's hair in what she thought might've been a comforting gesture.

They were all very, very quiet for a while. Too long, apparently, because the man in black took a step back as if to leave, and she panicked and jumped a full foot forward. And then, finally, her mind pulled at the information she was unknowingly looking for, and just as the man turned to dash away, she shouted after him.

"Wait! It's you, isn't it? The one that saved all those girls?" She'd been digitizing that article for her library the other day. A group of women had been admitted to the hospital, hysterical and crying about how a man in a mask had saved them from traffickers. It'd sounded like the drugged hallucination of some incredibly lucky girls, but here was the proof.

He stopped, half turned away from her, and tilted his head slightly. At least he hadn't taken off. She really didn't think she'd be able to catch up to him if he ran.

"Listen. I- I have a car," she said, voice flat and a little pathetic sounding. "And I mean, wherever you're going, it's gonna take a while walking, isn't it? And it's already almost three, it's gonna get light out soon, you really don't want to go walking around looking like that, not during the day. So- so you should-" she paused, whispered  _psycho killer_ under her breath, took a deep breath, then finished, "you should get in my car and tell me where to go."

They stared at each other for another long few seconds.

"Please?" Mica asked, head finally lifting from the man's neck. The man looked down briefly, then seemed to make up his mind and started to limp towards her car.

Oh god. Oh god. Ok. God. Fuck.

She turned to watch his progress, and stood staring dumbly as he buckled Mica into the back then sat himself in her passenger seat. This was surreal. There was a masked man and a possibly kidnapped child in her car. Both of whom were staring at her impatiently.

"Right. Fuck. Ok." _Run run run run run run run away._

Her legs turned into jello on her walk back to her car, but it was only a few feet so she managed. It was really her shaking hands that would be the problem, but at such an early hour she could afford to be a little wobbly in her driving.

"So. Right. Now what?" she asked, carefully not looking at the man next to her as she put her car back into drive.

"Ninth and Thirty-Seventh." And that was that for several minutes of tense silence. Until both of them noticed Mica at the same time, quietly crying in the back seat.

He'd covered his mouth with his hands, like he was afraid of making noise, but his little shoulders shook with the effort of it.

She glanced over to the man next to her, and sighed when she saw just how lost he looked. Pulling over to the side, she unbuckled herself and turned to face Mica.

"Hey. Hey, it's ok. I know you're scared, and it's ok to be scared, but you're safe now. We're going to get you home, I promise."

"I miss- miss- miss-" Mica's sobbing had ramped itself up, and he could barely breathe around his words. He'd started to hyperventilate and she was getting worried that he'd work himself up to the point of passing out.

"Alright, it's alright, hold on," she told him softly while she got out of the car. She continued to say reassuring words to him, even as she rounded the car (which he surely couldn't hear) "-be ok. Come here," she finished saying as she opened his door, crouching down and opening her arms to him. It took only a second before he'd unbuckled himself and launched into her arms.

Burying her face into the top of his head, she sat heavily against the asphalt and pulled him into herself as tightly as she could.

"Alright Mica, you're doing great, but we need to breathe, ok? Can you feel me breathing?" She wasn't sure if he'd be able to hear her over his sobs, but he nodded jerkily and she felt relieved.

"Hush, hush, it's ok. You're going to breathe with me now. Annnnnd iiiiiiin," she held her breath for several seconds, waiting for Mica to follow along, "annnnnd oooouut."

It took several minutes of hushed breathing before Mica's hiccuping breaths calmed, and he sat quietly in her arms. He'd seemed to relax himself, but when she stood up with him he clutched to her desperately.

At a loss for what to do- she couldn't drive and hold him at the same time- she made a quick decision and opened the passenger door. The masked man stared up at her, but made no protest when she gently passed Mica off to him, disentangling his little fingers from her shirt in the process.

She sat down heavily in her seat, but didn't start her car back up right away, choosing instead to stare at the man sitting next to her. He really didn't look to be doing so good, but she didn't want to ask how he was in front of Mica.

It wasn't until he turned to look at her that she finally started her car back up. The tense silence from before had dissipated, and there was a distinctly less threatening aura coming from her passenger. After the panic she'd suffered through the last twenty minutes, it almost felt relaxing.

As she turned down another side street, she was surprised to find herself humming. Cutting herself off, she glanced embarrassedly at the duo next to her, only to find the man leaning his head tiredly on the window with Mica safely asleep against his chest.

"So," she started, now that Mica wouldn't over hear them, "on a scale of one to ten, how badly are you doing?" She was careful not to look at him, instead focusing entirely on the red light in front of her. But when the light turned green and he still hadn't said anything, she flicked her eyes in his direction.

"Because you really don't look like you should be alive right now," she continued, "and I don't really know how this whole secret identity thing works, but I imagine you don't want me dropping you off anywhere near your place. And, I mean, like I said, you look like death. I really don't think you should be limping off anywhere unsupervised. And. Um. Well...." He was staring at her now, and even though she could only see his mouth, he looked distinctly unimpressed with her.

"And?" He managed to sound both incredibly exhausted and threatening at the same time. Truly, it was impressive, and she'd usually take him seriously, except that she was pretty sure his head was leaning against the window because he was too tired to move it.

"I'm going to regret this, I know I am. But I've already made a whole ton of mistakes tonight, and you probably already know where I work, so what's one more horrible decision really going to do, right?" She always rambled when she was tired, it was a horrible habit and she really wished she could just make herself stop but she couldn't.

"Is there- is there a point in there?"

"Yeah, hold on, I'm getting there, I just have to work myself up to it," she took in a deep breath, tightened her grip on the wheel, and spat out, "I'll drop you off at my place. I'm not going to be there tonight, I have to meet my friend at the ER. So you can- can clean yourself up, or call a friend to pick you up, or whatever it is you do, and we'll part ways and never meet again."

He rocked his head back and forth against the window, staring at her, and she felt anxiety bubble up and tighten her throat. She was used to making a fool of herself, but it somehow felt different when she did it in front of a vigilante. The silence stretched on for almost a full minute before he finally responded.

"I'm at about a seven," he sounded more amused than threatening, and his head continued to loll tiredly against the window. "You're going to want to turn right here, and pull over to the second building on your right."

"Where are we?" She asked as she pulled up against the curb.

"His dad's place," the man replied, slowly unbuckling himself and shifting Mica around. It looked incredibly painful, but she got the feeling that he wouldn't appreciate help. "I'll be back in a minute."

"While you're doing- uh- that- I'm going to call my friend. I was supposed to grab stuff from her place for her, and I sort of hung up on her, she's probably panicking. Just- just wanted you to know what I'm doing, so you don't come back to me on the phone. Just in case you were, you know, uh, worried?" She winced, her face flushing in complete embarrassment.

"Right," he replied tightly, and then opened the car door and swung himself out, Mica perched on his bent arm.

While he was carefully walking up the sidewalk, she looked at her phone- four missed calls and three increasingly more panicked text messages.

"Olivia! Where are you? Are you ok? What kid?" Leanne picked up the phone on the first ring, voice frantic. While Leanne peppered her with questions, Olivia watched the masked man knock on a door down the street.

"Hey, yeah, I'm ok. I'm going to be headed back to your place soon. Remember how I said I was lost? Well I found a kid wandering around. I just dropped him off at the police station." The lights in the house flickered on, and the door was thrown open so fast that she could hear the bang of it hitting the railing.

"Oh my god! Is he ok? Do you know if his parents were found?"

She watched as an older man desperately grabbed onto Mica, loud sobs echoing down the street, and his lips pressed hard against Mica's forehead. She could tell he was murmuring things- broken up by sobs, and muffled by Mica's hair- but she was too far away to make it out.

"Olivia?"

Her breath was caught painfully in her throat, and she had to try several times before she was able to respond.

"Yeah, yeah his dad was at the station. It was actually really painful to watch, he was so worried, you know? I hope I never feel that kind of fear. Anyway, I still have to swing by your place, and then I'll head back. Shouldn't be more than a half hour, forty-five minutes tops."

"Well, thank God he was returned safely. Take care, don't get lost again. Bret is doing better, they're thinking they'll be able to get him in for surgery first thing in the morning."

"Oh! That's great! You'll both be able to go home some time tomorrow, then!" The masked man was making his way back towards the car, and it was very obvious that he was starting to head down hill, fast. "Listen, I'm leaving the station now, so I've got to go. I'll see you soon, love you!"

She leaned over to open the car door for him, and sucked in a breath when she noticed just how much blood there was on the seat. This much blood was a seven?

"You didn't tell her about me," he said as he settled back into his seat.

"She worries about me more than enough. If I told her I'd picked up a dude in a mask that I met next to a warehouse, she'd probably actually kill me," her hands had begun to shake again with the reminder that she really didn't know this man at all. It was not a good idea to be in a car with him, and it especially wasn't a good idea to drop him off at her apartment. Drawing in a sharp breath, she stilled her hands against the steering wheel, and looked over at him.

He'd leaned his head back against the window, and she could see that his face had gone completely ashen and clammy. He had his hand pressed into his side, and his breathing had gotten thin. In short, he looked like he was half a step from dead.

"I know I said I'd take you to my apartment, but-" she cut herself off with a jaw-cracking yawn, and by the time she'd finished, he had already unbuckled himself and was trying to open his door.

"It's fine, I understand," he was saying. Or, well, he was trying to say, but it slurred together and was difficult to decipher.

"Sit back down you idiot. I'm not kicking you out, I'm asking if you want to go to the hospital. We can pick you up some normal-people clothes, and I can say I found you on the side of the road."

"No. Hospitals ar-" he sucked in a hissing breath and went one entire shade paler, "hospitals aren't a safe place for me to be, not when I've got a wound that would be obvious to trace back to tonight."

"You are going to die, you get that, right? If I take you back to my apartment, you will pass out and die."

"I've already had it looked at, it's been taken care of. It's just blood loss at this point. If you take me to your place, I'll restitch it and be out before you get back."

"Oh, good, it's just blood loss and some torn stitches. Nothing that any sane person would need to go to a hospital for. Of course. Fuck. Ok, fine, but I swear if I come back and you're dead-" she paused in her rant as she merged lanes, and tried to think of something to say that wasn't _I'll kill you_ "-I'll make sure everyone thinks you died doing something embarrassing. Like autoerotic asphyxiation, or something."

He huffed a wet-sounding laugh at that, which didn't make her feel especially confident that he would stay alive.

"So how do you expect to get me into your apartment without anyone noticing?"

"Oh, right," she strummed her fingers against the wheel, and looked at him appraisingly. "Well, I mean, there's the fire escape, isn't there? I'm on the top floor, so if you think you can make it that far... Though, the window doesn't open all the way, so maybe it's better if you come in through my roof access door."

"Roof is fine," he slurred.

She squinted over at him, listening closely to how laboured his breathing was. Pursing her lips together and heaving a heavy sigh through her nose, she turned back to the street. She was going to put herself out on another limb, but she needed to make sure he was actually worth it, first.

"What happened tonight?"

They'd both been silent for so long that the sound of her voice made him jerk in surprise, and he pursed his lips together tightly at the movement.

"The.... Russians. They kidnapped that boy. I brought him home."

She took her time thinking about that. It's what she had assumed, when she realized who the man was, but there were some things that weren't adding up. There were two guards near the door- that she could make out, at least- and only one boy in there. It didn't make sense to have that many people without the trafficking element being added in. But there'd be more kids then, wouldn't there?

"Why'd they take him?"

He was silent for a long time, and she thought maybe he had passed out.

"I've been making things difficult for them," he finally said, shifting upright and carefully not looking at her.

"So, what? They took him to try to lure you out?" His silence was incredibly telling, and she cursed under her breath. Rolling to a stop at the red light near her apartment, she took the whole light to think it over, tapping a constant beat against her steering wheel.

"How many of them were there?"

"Ten?" He didn't sound very confident in that answer.

"Is that rounding down?" He didn't respond, just shifted in his seat again. For someone who had a secret identity he was terrible at being vague and mysterious.

She eased into her parking spot- she paid a monthly fee at the car park because there was no way she was ever going to parallel park- and then turned to him, silent once more.

This was a really dumb choice, especially now that she knew innocent people were getting hurt in order to get to him. If any of those men at the warehouse saw her, there was a chance- slim sure, but still there- that they could follow her home. She also wasn't entirely sure she wanted him to know where she lived. He looked incredibly dangerous, and she knew she'd lose sleep imagining him breaking into her apartment. But he'd taken on ten people to save one kid, and he'd taken the kid home despite his injuries.

"Wait here for a second," she told him, heaving herself out of her car and trying not to think too much about all the horrible ways her choice could go. She popped open her trunk, and grabbed her in-case-of-emergencies winter blanket.

"So here's what we're going to do," she told him as she opened his door and handed him the blanket. "You're going to drape that over yourself and we're going to hope no one is wandering the halls. If they notice you, you are my best friend's husband, who was banned from the house for being incredibly sick. You will not say anything, at all, until my apartment door is closed and locked. Are we on the same page?"

By the time she'd finished talking, he'd made himself a nice hooded cape, and was leaning against the closed door behind him. He nodded tiredly, and then stumbled after her when she turned to cross the street.

He tripped on the curb, and she realized he probably wasn't able to see through the blanket covering half his face. The tense set of his shoulders and the way he slowly measured each step told her that he was having a problem with balance, too, so she heaved yet another sigh and stepped up to his side.

"Here," she said, placing his left arm around her shoulders, and pressed her hand on top of the one covering his injury, helping him apply pressure. "There's an elevator, so you won't need to walk up any steps." Which was good, because she lived on the eighth floor, and he didn't look like he could clear more than two. She sure as hell wouldn't have had the strength to drag him up the remaining six.

He winced at the added pressure to his wound, but didn't protest, and followed her through the lobby where they waited in a tense silence for the elevator.

She held her breath when the doors slid open, and felt a rush of relief when there was no one there.

Shoving him forward as best she could- he was heavier than he looked- she whispered to him "so it's probably not a good time to warn you, but sometimes the elevator gets stuck." She slapped the button for her floor without looking, and maneuvered them so they could lean in the corner.

"What?" There was a very slight note of hysteria in his tone, and she pressed her lips together not to laugh. The man beats the shit out of Russian mobsters, but the thought of a broke-down elevator has him panicking?

"It's fine, my neighbor repairs them for a living, if we get stuck I can give him a call."

"How long would that take?" His voice was thready, and he swallowed hard. She was suddenly reminded of a book she liked to read at story time, and the laughter bubbled out of her before she could help it.

"What?" His voice was demanding and hard as steel, but she couldn't stop laughing long enough to respond. It wasn't even that funny, she was just stupidly tired.

"The- the vigilante and the horrible, terrible, no good, very bad night," she finally said, voice a little hoarse from laughing. At his unimpressed look, she continued, "I know, I know, it's not very funny. It's just- you're afraid of being stuck in an elevator after all the things you did tonight."

He opened his lips to respond, but then pursed them back together when the elevator doors swung open. She shuffled him around a bit, wincing at the obvious pain it was causing him, and quickly moved them out of the elevator and down the hall.

The surrealness of the situation hit her once more while she struggled to unlock her door- her key was stuck in the lock again. She had a stranger practically draped over her. She was willingly letting a man who could beat up ten people into her home. He was bleeding all over her night shirt. And she still had to grab supplies for her friend who was stuck at the ER, so her night wasn't even half finished.

Finally getting her door open, she shouldered her way through with him still plastered to her side, and kicked the door shut behind them.

"Hey sweets, I'm home. I've got company though, so you might want to-" her cat had rushed into the hall to greet her, noticed the strange man, and immediately darted into the bedroom "-hide. Here, my couch is this way. Sorry about the mess, I wasn't exactly expecting to host a dying person."

"...'m not dying, I told you already."

She ignored him entirely, and tried to lay him out on the couch as gently as she could. Despite her best efforts he still exhaled on a large hiss as soon as she went to lean him back.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry," she mumbled softly as she continued to help him lay down. "I'll be right back, I'm going to go get you a wet towel and some rubbing alcohol," she told him once he was finally laying down.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for the wonderful reviews, everyone! I finished editing this chapter early so decided to post it now. Don't expect such fast turn around in the future, though.
> 
> Also, time line wise: I'm adding time between events because a lot of stuff in the show felt like it happened too fast. It also didn't make sense for Matt to be on the streets so fast after such serious injuries. I'm also moving some canon events around a bit, I found I needed to in order to accommodate for my OC.

Matt was having an abnormally bad night, and he wasn't sure how much of the blame to put on the woman whose apartment he was currently in. He could've been home by now, blissfully passed out on his bed. But he wasn't, and at this point he didn't know how long it would be before he'd be able to do so.

He hadn't wanted to get in her car. After all, he had a broken rib, not a broken leg, and he could walk just fine- but Mica had begged. And he also knew it was the only way to prevent her from being a problem. He'd heard the way her body shifted throughout her one-sided conversation, she had been ready to chase after him. It wouldn't have been too difficult to outrun her, but she didn't seem the type to give up easily, and she did have a car that would've made tracking him down a little bit easier.

She had annoyed him- was still annoying him if he was being honest- but she had also calmed Mica down, something he was grateful for. The panic in the young boy had steadily been building, and Matt knew it was only a matter of time before it became a problem that he had no idea how to solve; he didn't usually have to deal with the aftermath of trauma.

She'd surprised him when she offered to let him stay at her place, she was so obviously afraid and untrusting of him. Yet, here he was, listening to her scramble around her apartment looking for the rubbing alcohol.

"How the hell did I misplace that? I use it every freaking day," she mumbled to herself, something he'd learned was a habit of hers.

While she looked for her supplies, he took the time to assess her apartment. It was something he should've done right away, to look for any surprises she might have waiting for him, but he was so tired, and despite being a bit obnoxious she had been a distractingly warm presence on his cold side.

Her entire place smelled faintly of turpentine and cat, both smells that were usually overwhelming to him, but he could hear the whir of an air filter in the other room. Half of the wall under her living room window was taken up with plants, all of them in varying states of alive, and he frowned to himself when he realised her window was open. It wasn't the one leading to the fire escape, but it would still be easy to drop into from the roof.

"Do you always leave your window open when you're gone?" He asked her as she came back into the living room. He could hear her heart stutter a bit when he spoke, and he tried not to feel guilty over her fear- he didn't do anything to her, he didn't know her, and he'd never see her again. There was no point to the guilt.

"No, I just left in such a hurry that I didn't close it." _Lie_. "Are you going to need help with this?" She was nervous just being on the other side of the room from him, so he shook his head no and held out his hand for the wet towel.

Once he had it in hand, he struggled to sit up a little before trying to take off his shirt. It was an incredibly frustrating task, he couldn't seem to move without intense pain, and it was made all the more difficult by her staring at him.

He heard her sigh deeply- a sign he was beginning to recognise as her making a decision she wasn't happy about- and then she was standing next to him, heart beating rapidly.

"Here, hold on," her hands briefly covered his, stopping him from struggling with his sticky shirt, and then they moved up and under his shirt. She rolled it all the way up to his shoulders, then very gently helped him to maneuver his left arm out. She tilted his head slightly to the right, which helped her to move the shirt over his head, before slowly sliding it down his right arm. She managed to do it without jostling his injuries, and he was distantly impressed.

"Jesus Christ," she hissed, staring at what he could only assume was a mass of bruises and blood. Her hand reached out and hovered over the puncture Claire had made in his ribs, "did you have a collapsed lung? Did- did you beat up ten people with a collapsed lung?"

His smile was a little more feral than he was aiming for, and he could hear her suck on her teeth nervously when she saw the blood in his mouth.

"Isn't that, like, a sign of internal bleeding or something?" She made some sort of hand gesture, before tentatively picking up the wet towel he'd thrown to the floor, and moving to clean the blood from around his stitches.

"Just a split lip," her hands stilled, and he was impressed by how clearly she was able to project doubt, "I also bit my tongue," he added reluctantly.

His breathing turned heavy when the towel brushed over his stitches, and it was several seconds before he came back to himself. He almost had it in him to find it funny that he could fight in this condition, yet the gentle brush of a towel nearly undid him. But he was too tired to put in the effort of feeling emotions other than annoyance. Luckily for him, apathy was something that required no energy- he really didn't want to try and clean the wound up himself, and he doubted she'd continue to help him if he snapped at her for something as small as humming under her breath.

The humming, though, it had to stop. It wasn't something he'd usually find intolerable, but he was raw tonight, and everything felt too close and too loud, he had no true way to filter anything out. He'd already spent the whole night trying not to snap at her for her constant rambling, and his patience was at its end. He grit his teeth to keep quiet, and when he finally could take no more, he made to say something-

 _Mreep_.

There was a soft trilling noise coming from the hallway, causing just enough of a distraction to allow him some measure of distance and control.

"Yes sweets, he's still very much out here. You should probably go back to hiding, he looks like he'll be here a while," her voice was just as soft as when she'd spoken to Mica, and he found himself finally unwinding. She continued to talk softly to her cat as she moved on to cleaning the blood covering the lower half of his face.

"Sweets?" he asked carefully, still trying to control his breathing.

Now that he was beginning to calm down, he felt almost ashamed at how annoyed he had been with this woman. She had done nothing but try to help all night, and her actions should have been enough to endear her to him in some way. After all, she had stopped to help Mica when she'd thought him to be a kidnapper. He'd heard the way her muscles bunched, and knew she wouldn't have hesitated to fight him, despite the fear that was thrumming through her whole body. She knew she wouldn't win, and yet she'd still been ready. And after he'd told her about how Mica had been used to get to him, she had still taken him into her apartment. She had risked a lot tonight, and he was being an asshole simply because he was in a bit of pain.

She hummed questioningly at him, and he clarified, "your cat's name is sweets?"

"Oh no, that's just what I call her. That and asshole, but I think everyone calls their cat that," she paused briefly to concentrate on wiping at a small trickle of blood coming from under his mask, "her name's actually Meep, since that's pretty much the only noise she makes. It's rare to hear her meow." Giving up on cleaning a wound she couldn't reach, she moved back to his stitches, cleaning them once more before setting the towel back on the ground.

"Thank you," he said, just barely loud enough to be heard over another _mreep_ from her cat.

"Of course. Though I really hope you brought your own first aid supplies, because all I've got are band aids."

He grinned at her again, causing her heart rate to tick back up with nerves. She really was scared of him, and once he wasn't so exhausted he was sure he'd spend a good deal of time wondering why she would take him in with how scared he made her.

Ignoring how she shifted nervously from where she kneeled next to him, he reached down to a pocket in his pants. It was an awkward stretch, trying to reach a lower pocket on his right side with his left hand, and he had to lift up off the couch slightly to manage it. Before he could fumble with the zipper, though, she had gently pushed him back against the couch and reached for the pocket herself.

"You've busted three stitches, and moving around like that's just going to open the others. So stop moving, because you're already getting more than enough blood over all my stuff," she said, reaching into the pocket and pulling out the supplies Claire had sent him off with. "Oh good, you've got uh... stitching wire," she stumbled, clearly having forgotten the word she was searching for.

Matt laughed weakly, though it was genuine. "Yeah, I've got the stitching hook in there too," he said, flashing another blood-filled smile her way. He could feel her skin heat up, and his smile grew just a bit more.

"Ok, well, that's where I'm going to leave you," she dropped the supplies on his stomach and made to stand up, grabbing at the armrest for balance. "The rubbing alcohol is on the floor. I'm going to pack some things up, holler if you need me." She might as well have added on a  _please don't need me_ for all the enthusiasm she said it with, but he appreciated the offer all the same.

While she was in her bedroom, Matt sterilized his supplies. It was difficult to do while laying down, and he spilled some of the alcohol down his front, sucking in a breath at the sting it left behind. It took him more concentration than normal to thread the needle and tie off the string, but he managed it.

He was tenderly prodding his wound, trying to determine the best way to restitch it, when her cat made a soft noise from right next to him.

"Not right now," he told it, plucking out the old stitches with a grimace. But as he reached down to grab the rubbing alcohol again, her cat placed its front paws against the couch edge and nudged at his face. Letting out a huff, he tried to shrug her off without moving too much, with exactly zero success.

"Hey, uh..." he trailed off, realizing he didn't know the woman's name. He was sure he'd overheard it during her phone conversation, but he had forgotten it immediately, "hey, can you- can you get your cat?" he continued, louder than before.

Her cat had jumped up on the small space available next to his head, and had curled up against his neck as tightly as she could. It was a nice, warm spot against his freezing skin, but her fur tickled and she was in the way.

"What?" she sounded confused as she came down the hall, and stopped at the entrance to the living room. "Oh, wow, that's unusual. Come on Meep, time to go," she told her cat, who promptly unfurled herself and ran out of the room.

The woman made to leave as well, but hesitated for a moment, watching as he struggled with the rubbing alcohol and the threaded needle at the same time. She let out the same sigh he'd heard multiple times tonight, and made her way back over to him.

"What's the goal here?" she asked, sitting back down on the floor near his head. He had the urge to shoo her away the same way he had her cat, but knew it would be just as useless.

"Trying to disinfect the stitches before I redo them," he said, balancing the bottle on his stomach and reaching back down for the towel.

"Ew, no, don't use that, it'll cause more problems then help. Hold on, let me grab a new one," and before he could respond she was gone, leaving him awkwardly laying there with a bottle of rubbing alcohol on his stomach and a threaded needle clutched tightly in his hand.

He concentrated on her movements, listening as she shuffled around in her bedroom once again.

 _"Ow, Jesus, fuck, Meep what the hell. You're banned, that's it. Banned,"_ she hissed to her cat, who had tripped her up and caused her to ram her elbow into the corner of her dresser. It had sounded painful and Matt could smell blood, but she acted as if she didn't notice it, rushing back into the living room shortly after.

"Hold on a second, I'll get it ready," she told him, picking up the bottle and dumping it over the towel she held. "Alright, there you go," she held out the towel to him while turning to place the bottle on the coffee table.

He could feel her holding back another sigh when she turned back to him, watching as he awkwardly clutched at the towel with his right hand. When he clenched his jaw at the pain of moving his arm to clean his wound, he heard the sigh he was expecting.

"Alright, hold on, stop that," she said while reaching for the towel he was holding.

"Gonna pop more stitches that way, remember? We just had this conversation like five minutes ago."

He sighed in relief when she pushed his arm back down, and then tensed when she started going over the stitches without warning him. His hands clenched into fists while he waited for the sting to leave.

"Sorry, sorry, that was dumb of me," she said, voice low like when she was talking to Mica or her cat. She continued talking, low sounds and half-formed sentences, and he slowly felt his muscles start to relax. She moved on from his stitches and began to slowly clean the other cuts he had, talking quiet nonsense all the while. He'd almost let himself fall asleep when she announced that she was done, and he prepared himself for the process of restitching his wound.

Prodding once more at his cut, he shakily brought his left hand up, angling it where he needed. It was difficult doing it with his left hand, and he lost his grip a couple times before finally making the first puncture. Try as he might, though, he couldn't seem to pull the thread through far enough to make the second stitch.

"I-" he started to say, then stopped himself. He was surprised to find that she was still sitting next to him, silently watching what he was doing. "Could you-" he began again before once more cutting himself off.

"You, uh, you need help with the stitches?" she asked, voice thready and a bit high-pitched.

He nodded, letting go of the needle and letting himself fall back onto the couch completely. What was wrong with him tonight? He was normally able to stitch himself up, even left-handed. Granted, they weren't very good, but he was at least able to manage. And tonight he only had to do three, yet he just couldn't get his body to cooperate.

"Oh no. I've- I've never done anything even kind of like this. I can barely manage to put a button back onto a shirt. I really- really think you're better off calling someone over when I'm gone."

He sighed heavily through his nose, and turned his head towards her. "Please. I'll walk you through it," he said, voice low and raspy with fatigue.

She was quiet for a very long time, before finally getting up with a parting, "just let me wash my hands first. I don't have any gloves and don't want to cause an infection."

When she came back she was holding a pill bottle and what he assumed was a water bottle.

"I've only got ibuprofen, but I figured any pain killer is better than none, right? Do you want to take some now before I start stitching you back up?" she sounded like she was trying to stall, but instead of the annoyance he was expecting he felt a small surge of amusement.

"I'm good for now," he said, struggling not to laugh at her when he felt just how disappointed she was.

"You sure? I could maybe crush some up in water for you, make them start to work faster?"

"You do know that stalling isn't going to make me disappear, right?"

"That was just phase one. Phase two was turning off the lights and hoping you melt into the shadows," she mumbled while picking up the needle. Her voice shook slightly with nerves, but her hands were steady.

Laughing just a bit, Matt replied, "you would be that cruel to someone bleeding out?" His breath hitched a bit when he shifted, hoping to position himself so she could stitch him up easier.

"Oh my god, are you really? Shit, I don't- do need orange juice? That's what they give you for blood loss, right?" her voice had gone thready and high-pitched again, and despite his best efforts Matt laughed at her panic.

"I'll be fine, it's not all that bad."

"Ok. New rule. Vigilantes aren't allowed to be mean to me in my own home," she took a steadying breath, then positioned the needle where she thought it should go, "so now what?"

The actual stitching process didn't take too long, thankfully. Longer than it would have if he had been able to do it himself, but she clearly didn't know what she was doing and was terrified of hurting him. She kept up a soft mantra of _sorry, sorry, sorry, oh god I'm so sorry_ and strangely it helped calm him. It felt almost like meditation, listening to her low, soothing voice. She had the most difficulty with tying it off, but all in all it had taken her less than ten minutes.

He found it odd that her hands only began to shake as she was trying to cut the thread, but didn't comment on it.

"I'm going to have such a stress migraine tomorrow," she said, shakily placing all the used supplies on one of the towels and trying unsuccessfully to stand. He listened while she took in several deep breaths, holding herself very still, before she forced herself to stand up on unsteady legs.

"You going to be ok to drive?" he couldn't stop himself from asking. She seemed to make a lot of poor decisions in life- leaving windows open, taking on people bigger than her, letting strangers into her home- and he was slightly worried that driving when she shouldn't would be one of those bad choices.

Huffing at him, she responded with a hint of annoyance, "I'll be fine," she shuffled around a bit before cursing, "shit, it's getting late, I need to go before my friend thinks I'm dead. The water bottle and ibuprofen are on the ground next to you. Bathroom's down the hall and to the left. I'll leave out a clean towel for you, if you feel up to taking a shower. Orange juice is in the fridge, just in case you really do need some and you're trying to be super-tough or something." And with that she was down the hall and in her room, moving things around once again. Matt was too tired to focus on her properly, but he was aware enough of her to pick up that she was grousing at her cat again.

He was startled out of a slight doze when she suddenly draped a blanket over him. It was soft and felt handmade.

"I know how cold blood loss makes you," she explained, apparently interpreting his pressed lips as confusion. "It's one of my favorites, so don't bleed on it." Before he could ask why she would give him one of her favorites, she was already at the door.

"Close the window!" he shouted after her, but went completely ignored- she was already locking the door behind her. He could hear her mumble something about ungrateful assholes, and then she was gone.

____

Matt woke up to the sounds of sobbing. He was completely disoriented and couldn't seem to remember where he was. It was unfamiliar, and there was someone in the room with him, hovering their hands over him. One of their hands moved over to his neck, and he reacted on instinct, grasping their wrist tight enough to leave bruises.

"Oh thank god! I thought you were dead!" there was a woman sobbing over him, completely ignoring his grip on her wrist, and she sounded incredibly familiar.

"I- who are you?" he rasped through his dry throat.

"Shit, do-do you have a con-concussion? You're not supposed to sleep with those, right? Ok, ok, this is fine, you're awake n-n-now, that's a good sign," she was still sobbing, but seemed to be calming herself down slowly.

"Right. You," he remembered where he was now, and quickly let go of her wrist, "sorry."

"Oh my god. Oh my god. I thought you were dead, you weren't waking up and I couldn't tell if you were breathing. Holy shit. Don't ever do that again," her hands went back to hovering over him, not touching but still checking to make sure he was in one piece.

"That's not a choice most people get to make," he grunted, reaching down for the water bottle and downing half of it in one go. "Besides, I thought you were looking forward to making up an embarrassing story about how I died. I believe you'd mentioned something about autoerotic asphyxiation?"

She lightly tapped his shoulder at his words, chewing on her lips before responding.

"You're not allowed to die in my home, it would make you an incredibly rude guest. Besides, how would I explain why you were doing _that_ in my apartment?" She finally settled her hands on his side, gently checking on his stitches without actually touching them. Her hands felt incredibly warm on his chilled skin, and he found he didn't particularly mind. "Jesus, you're freezing. Hold on," her hands left his side and he missed the warmth right away.

"What time is it?" he called after her. The last he remembered, she'd left to meet her friend at the ER. He had hoped to leave shortly after her, but apparently he had passed out instead. Hopefully it would still be early enough in the day for him to sneak along the rooftops back to his place.

"About eleven," she yelled back, and he could hear her moving things around in her kitchen. "Looks like you're unfortunately stuck here until later."

He groaned, annoyed with himself and her in equal measures. If she hadn't been such a good samaritan he'd be blissfully asleep in his own bed.

"Drink this," she ordered, holding out a glass of orange juice to him, "and take these," she said, holding out some pills in her other hand.

"What're those?" he asked, sitting up painfully and taking the orange juice from her.

"Iron pills. I doubt taking just a few will do you much good, so remind me to send you home with more once you're ready to leave," she dumped them on his lap when he didn't reach out to take them. "You had better have taken those by the time I get back with another blanket," she threatened, and he almost missed when she was afraid of him.

Sighing through his nose, he reluctantly took them while she was still watching. "I miss when you were too scared to boss me around," he told her, smiling when she huffed indignantly at him.

"You still scare the shit out of me," her heart stayed steady, so she wasn't lying to him, "but I figure you're in too much pain to do anything right now. I'll probably have to start locking my windows from now on, though," she added on a mumble.

"Why? You secretly a kingpin or something?" the thought alone was incredibly amusing, but he couldn't stop the slight hurt he felt from entering his voice. Did she really think he went around beating up just anyone?

"I don't know you from any of the other assholes in this city, how should I know what your modus operandi is?" she told him, already headed towards her bedroom.

"You're safe from me, promise," he called after her, "though you really should be locking your windows anyway."

"Forgive me if I don't take life advice from a dude who goes around beating people up when he's got broken ribs and a collapsed lung," she said while draping another heavy blanket over him. The warmth was almost immediate, and he sighed in relief.

"Just because you don't like the source doesn't mean it's not good advice," he told her, shuffling around until he was once again comfortable.

"Shut up and go back to sleep. I'll wake you up when I'm headed out later tonight."

____

The second time Matt woke up, he was nauseous from swallowing all the blood in his mouth. There was a disgusting taste on his tongue- acidic and iron and morning breath all in one. While draining the water bottle, he cast about the apartment for his host.

"Get the hell out of here sweets, you asshole," she said, humor in her voice. She was surprisingly close, curled up in the armchair next to him, and he could hear music drifting from her headphones. The left side was the only one that worked, and she compensated for it by listening to the music a tad louder than wise. Which seemed to be how she lived life.

Her cat made an unhappy sound and jumped from her lap, landing loudly on the floor. She immediately jumped into his lap, and she was surprisingly heavy for how small she was.

"No, leave him alone, you're not allowed to bother injured people. Get. Why do you even like him, anyway? I can't get you to say hello to my best friend of twenty-three years, but the total psychopath you willingly curl up to?"

Matt huffed indignantly at her words, and slowly reached down to pet the cat who had moved up to his chest, purring loudly at him.

"I'd say she's a good judge of character," he defended himself, and the woman let out a startled yelp at his words. He could add unobservant to her list of character traits.

"She spends her days yelling at me because she wants to get into the secret room in the mirror, so I don't know how much you want to rely on her for all your judgement needs." She was remarkably unrepentant about calling him a psychopath, and Matt wondered how blasé she'd be about it if he wasn't laid up on her couch.

"What's the time?" he asked, still petting the cat.

"Almost four. Do you eat meat?" she asked him, standing from the chair- it swayed when she moved, and he realised it was a rocking chair.

"I- yeah- what?"

"Good. I'm gonna make you a baked potato. I've got bacon bits I can add to it. What's your opinion on cheese? Cheddar or mozzarella? A ton or none?" She was already moving into the small space that was her kitchen, rifling through a metal stand that he could smell stored potatoes.

"Uh... mozzarella?"

"Cool cool. And sour cream? How much do you want? I always have mine swimming in it," she paused in washing the potato to look at him, then continued, "you know what, I'll just bring the ingredients out to you and you can fix it up how you want."

This was not what he expected.

"Wh-" he began, awkwardly trying to figure out how to say _why are you feeding me_ without sounding ungrateful.

While he fumbled for words, she placed the potato in some sort of container and popped it into the microwave, then dug around her fridge and pulled out various toppings. He could smell that most of them were organic, which didn't necessarily mean they were free from chemicals, but it did mean that most of them would actually taste like food and not every spray imaginable. He was relieved that he wouldn't have to pretend to be thankful for food that tasted like shit.

"You saved that little boy," she told him while cutting up green onions with a pair of cooking scissors. "You might well be a serial killer, but I figure you deserve at least a good meal for helping that kid."

"I don't kill," he said automatically, hand placed heavily on top of the cat still sleeping on him. "It's- it's pretty much the only thing I won't do, to help this city," he added on.

He could feel her watching him, and wondered what type of look she was giving him. He also wondered what he looked like, to her. Obviously she thought he looked like a serial killer, but that couldn't be all- not if she willingly took him into her home. Not if she stitched him up, and gave him her favorite blanket, and let her cat sleep on him.

"Well I guess I'll have to take your word for it. You seem genuine enough. I mean, you saved those girls from traffickers, and you saved Mica, so obviously you're not a horrible person."

The microwave beeped, and she pulled out the potato, cutting it up for him before placing all of the ingredients on the coffee table next to him and dragging it up to the edge of the couch.

"Come on Meep, time to go," she said, and once again her cat hopped down from the couch right away, transferring herself to the rocking chair instead.

His host sat on the floor on the other side of the coffee table, legs pushed under it and feet tapping against the couch. She watched him as he struggled to sit up enough to reach the food.

"Do you want me to do this for you? We could do the whole 'say when' thing that fancy restaurants do with the pepper grinder," she didn't sound patronizing when she asked, and it would spare him the effort of sensing where everything was, so he nodded silently.

"Ok, first up, the butter- yay or nay?" She picked up a butter knife, looking to him silently, and when he shook his head no she moved on, "alright then, the cheese next." She grabbed a handful and plopped it on top, then looked over to him, and when he didn't respond right away, she added more on.

"When," he said, lips quirked into a half-smile. This was ridiculous. "Do you really think only fancy restaurants do the pepper grinder thing?" he asked while she mixed in the sour cream, "when," he quickly added when she went to put on another large spoonful.

"Fancy restaurants and Olive Garden," she nodded, and she sounded so serious that he couldn't help his laugh. "Hey! I made you food, you don't get to mock me!" She quickly threw in a smattering of the other ingredients then shoved the bowl at him, "I hope your potato is sub-par."

He laughed in earnest at that, holding onto the warm bowl and just managing to catch the plastic fork she threw at him.

She tapped her feet against the couch in an agitated pattern, before seemingly forgiving him and standing up, water bottle in hand.

"Why didn't you take off my mask?" he asked her when she came back, placing the full water bottle just to his right.

"Why the hell would I _want_ to? That's just asking for trouble. It's easier to say you don't know something when it's the truth, after all," she was being completely genuine, and he realised with horror what she was actually saying- that if someone ever came after her for information, she'd be able to tell them the truth. That there'd be no temptation to give him up.

"If anyone ever comes after you, you give me up right away," he told her, jaw clenching at the thought of another life ruined because of him.

"There's nothing to give up, though, is there? So you're welcome."

She was so casual about it, and it made his blood boil with the knowledge that she wasn't taking the dangerous possibility seriously. There was nothing he could do about it, though, and he wasn't really inclined to try. After all, she'd just started to believe he wasn't going to harm her, and he didn't want to go back to her being constantly nervous around him.

"I have to head out soon, I won't be back until some time around eight or nine, so you'll be free to leave whenever you want. I've left the iron pills with your shirt- they're both on the counter in my bathroom," she told him while cleaning up the food.

"Why is my shirt in your bathroom?" he frowned, trying to remember what exactly he had done with it after getting it off.

"Washed it with the towels. It's still all torn to shit, but it's clean now at least."

"Oh. Thank you." And that was all they said to each other for the rest of the afternoon.

About an hour after he'd thanked her, she came out of the second bedroom and shuffled by him, carrying something very large and smelling strongly of turpentine. He wanted to ask what it was, but it would have seemed odd that he couldn't actually see what she was dragging along behind her.

"Alright, this is where we part ways. Hope your side gets better, keep up the good fight, eat all your veggies, etcetera etcetera," she said, voice strained with the effort of trying to get whatever it was through her doorway.

"Shit, I think I'm gonna have to take the fire escape," she said when it became obvious that she wasn't going to be successful.

She shuffled past him again, groaning tiredly when she came to the stairs leading to her roof access. He listened with interest while she painfully made her way out onto the roof, propping her cargo up against the outside wall when she'd finally made it through.

"Ok. Goodbye for real this time," she told him, popping her head back through the door, "make sure you lock the door behind you- and don't forget to take those iron pills with you." Then she was officially out of the apartment.

He could still hear her, cursing while she made her way noisily down the fire escape. It was apparently a common enough occurrence, because none of her neighbors seemed to make a fuss about it, though one did wish her luck when she passed by his window. Matt was pretty sure it didn't actually have anything to do with her cargo, though, and everything to do with the sixteen-year-old having a massive crush on her.

"Wait. I forgot to ask her name," Matt told her cat when it jumped back onto his chest.

 _Mrrrrp_ she responded, kneading at the blanket covering him.

"Right," he replied, then fell silent, smiling as he listened to her miss all the words to the song she was trying to sing along to. He listened until she left his range.

____

It had been surprisingly easy to leave him in her apartment. She wasn't sure what that said about her, that she was willing to leave a dangerous stranger in her home. It was what it was, though, and she'd long since given up second-guessing herself after a choice had already been made.

She couldn't deny that she was nervous, though. Not because she thought he'd steal all of her stuff, but because of how she'd come home to find him. He'd genuinely looked dead, and it was one of the scariest moments of her life, seeing him laying there pale and unresponsive. She wasn't ashamed of her total break down, but she'd appreciated that he hadn't mentioned it all the same. She was absolutely terrified that she'd come home tonight to find him actually dead, but she kept reminding herself that he'd been awake and almost active when she left, which was a world of difference from earlier that morning.

Still, it wouldn't hurt to cut her meeting a bit short, just in case.

Pulling up to the curb, she greeted the familiar valet with a smile, "hey Greg, got another one to drop off. Is Vanessa available right now?"

"Should be, it's a pretty calm night in there, only the one customer right now," he responded, helping her move the large canvas from the back of her car, then helped her reassemble the seats so they weren't lying flat. "You going to be just a couple minutes, or do you need me to park it for you?"

She thought about it, waffling back and forth- she hadn't been able to visit with Vanessa in a while, but she also wanted to get home and make sure her vigilante visitor wasn't dead. She glanced at her watch and finally made up her mind. It was a little after five, and she'd told him she wouldn't be home until eight. She figured she could find a middle ground, and show up at seven instead.

"Go ahead and park it, please. I shouldn't be too long, but who knows with Vanessa," they shared a smile, knowing full well that Vanessa liked talking to people and that her conversations often went longer than expected.

"Sure thing. Let me help you in with this, first," and together they moved the large canvas through the side-door of the gallery.

"Thank you so much," she said, giving him a tip- he always objected, since she was technically also an employee, but she forced it on him every time. He was a single dad, after all, and his son would be starting baseball soon. It was expensive to buy those uniforms.

She left her canvas leaning against the back wall, and meandered her way into the main gallery, passing a severe looking man on her way.

"Olivia!" Vanessa called out, reaching out for a loose hug, "just in time, I was getting ready to ask the gentleman over there if he was interested in that painting."

"Yes, I'm sorry that I'm running a bit late, it was a hectic morning and I lost track of time," this was, of course, a massive understatement. "Feel free to go speak with him, I've already left the piece in the back room for you," she added on.

"Nonsense, I must look it over with you first. You know how I feel about new art." Vanessa guided her back through the gallery, pausing briefly to look over at the man who had yet to move. Olivia bit her lip, trying not to snort. Vanessa was incredibly obvious about her type, and always did a horrible job of disguising her interest.

"You should go for it," Olivia said once they had entered the back room, ignoring the way Vanessa looked at her indignantly. "I'm serious, he's exactly your type." Vanessa hummed noncommittally at her, and their conversation dropped once they'd reached the artwork Olivia had brought.

"Still experimenting I see," Vanessa told her, reaching out to touch the canvas, "more texture this time- what did you use?"

"Fishing wire. I like the way it blends in with the paint, but creates just enough of a ledge for me to build up the paint. I'm already planning on using it for my next piece, but I think maybe I'll add some wax-coated string, since that's easier to manipulate into the shapes I want."

Vanessa continued to feel along the canvas, and Olivia felt the familiar jolt of nerves. Vanessa was never cruel about her critiques, and so far Olivia had been lucky that her pieces had always passed muster, but it was still an unsettling experience to have her artwork judged.

"It's beautiful Olivia," she finally said, turning to her friend with a wide smile. "One day I will force you to do a show," she shook her head and then added on, "now, if you'll excuse me, I have a customer to speak with."

"Sure, sure. I'm going to hang around for a minute, see what's new, if that's alright?"

"Of course."

They both knew Olivia was really staying to see if Vanessa would get a date out of the man she was so clearly interested in.

"There's an old children's joke-" Vanessa's soft voice said, but Olivia lost track of the conversation while she admired the artwork around her.

There was one piece in particular that she loved, it had been here for quite a while, and Olivia selfishly wished it would never be sold. It was beautiful reds that bled into soft teals, gloss finish mixed with matte, and it always reminded her of poppy fields. It was one of the most soothing things she had ever looked at, and she wished more than anything that she could afford it for her apartment. Unfortunately, even with her full-time job and part-time painting, she had massive amounts of bills to pay, and really couldn't spare the money. She sighed to herself; she'd just have to marry rich, it was the only solution.

"A woman who can be bought is not worth having," she heard the man say, and she glanced over her shoulder at Vanessa.

The man's back was turned to Olivia, and Vanessa glanced over his shoulder at her, an unsure smile on her face. Giving a thumbs up, Olivia nodded and then turned back to the painting, giving her friend some semblance of privacy.

"I'm partial to Italian," Vanessa said, and Olivia grinned to herself, glad her friend was once again getting back into things. There'd been a terrible breakup several months ago, and Vanessa had sworn off dating in a fit of drama. She'd held on to her promise a lot longer than Olivia had anticipated, and she'd started to worry that maybe Vanessa wasn't healing from the breakup as well as she pretended to.

She must have been lost in her thoughts a lot longer that she thought, because Vanessa was suddenly standing next to her, also looking over the painting.

"You're a good friend, Olivia," she said, "but you are terrible at being subtle. He knows you encouraged me to say yes, and I'm fairly certain that I am never again allowing you in the same room as him." Vanessa smiled down at her, then continued, "I will be closing a little early tonight, he has been my only customer for the last three hours."

Olivia glanced at her watch, surprised to find that it was already seven- she'd been entirely lost in her own thoughts for such a long time.

"I've got to head back anyway, I've been putting off cleaning my apartment, and if I don't do it tonight I won't get it done all week."

They said their goodbyes to each other, and Olivia let Greg know she was ready to leave.

Her trip home seemed to take a lot longer than normal, and her thoughts were disjointed. She wasn't even able to concentrate enough to sing along to her music, something she enjoyed doing despite her terrible singing voice.

She had so much jittery energy that she decided to take the stairs, hoping the light exercise would help her calm her thoughts. It was useless, though, as her hands still shook slightly when she tried to use her door key.

Frowning at herself- her hands hadn't shaken this much in years, the last time she'd been this nervous was almost a decade ago- she wiggled the key until it came unstuck (she really needed to let her landlord know about the sticking issue) and swung her door open.

He was gone.

Well, at least she knew he hadn't died while she was out. He'd even attempted to clean up after himself, which she appreciated. Though it did make him an idiot- she knew he had at least one broken rib, on top of what was a very apparent stab wound. What kind of moron exerted themselves with injuries like that?

Shaking her head, she moved further into her apartment, huffing a laugh when she noticed all her windows had been closed. Pushy asshole. She opened them back up, just to spite him, then went to make sure he had actually taken the iron pills with him.

Feeling the promised migraine come on- she always got them after stressful situations- she looked at the dishes piled in her sink, then at the dust coating her gaming consoles. Deciding they could wait until next week, she turned off her lights and went to bed.

____

Matt had tried to clean up after himself, with mixed success. In the process, though, he discovered that she also left the window in her bedroom open. In fact, walking around her apartment, he realized that the only one she didn't leave open was the one leading to her fire escape. Shaking his head in exasperation, he closed all of them before moving to her bathroom.

He was sorely tempted to take a shower before heading out, but decided he didn't want to get another one of her towels dirty. He could still smell some of his blood on the ones she had washed, and he winced in guilt.

So instead, he carefully put his shirt back on, relieved to find that she used unscented detergent, and debated on whether or not to take the iron pills. After a brief moment, he swept the bottle up and zipped it in one of his pockets.

He waited until he heard the street lights turn themselves on to head out, and passed the time sitting in the overstuffed rocking chair, with the cat in his lap. It was almost two full hours before he was able to leave, giving her cat one last pat before making his way to the roof access door, being sure to lock it behind him.

He expected to be a bit disoriented once he was outside, anticipating having to spend several minutes trying to figure out where exactly he was. Unexpectedly, though, he knew exactly where he was, and he didn't know whether to be amused or frustrated with himself. He could've gone home at any point in time, because he was only two buildings away from his own apartment.

That, more than anything, let him know just how bad off he had been, and how incredibly lucky he was that not just one but two people had been willing to help him.

His lips once again quirked up- the vigilante and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad night, indeed. She was right, it really hadn't been that funny, but in retrospect he could see how the pressure of the night had made her think of it.

Jumping the roofs was slower going than normal, but he only needed to go across a couple so he managed fine.

Once he was in his apartment, he barely managed to take a shower before collapsing in his bed. Remembering to take two more iron pills before finally falling asleep surrounded by his soft sheets.


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, Matt wasn't supposed to take up so much of this chapter, but he's apparently an attention hog. And I swear, Olivia isn't going to cry through the whole story, we're just seeing her reaching the end of her "bad shit" stamina.
> 
> Thank you everyone who reviewed! It means so much to me to know that people are interested in this story, even just a little. And thank you all those who left kudos, it's nice to know someone read through to the end and didn't get bored!
> 
> Forewarning: we're going to start getting into the rearranged timeline soon. You'll start to see the very very beginnings of episode three next chapter. Sort of. It'll soon become obvious that this story will deviate a lot. Both in how long events take, and in what order events happen. So don't get confused when you see things get mixed up, it's on purpose I swear.
> 
> Song for this chapter:  
> Down the Line: José González

Matt didn't know why he had woken up, he was so exhausted that he'd anticipated sleeping through most of the day. But there was a frantic edge to his heartbeat, and his hands had automatically curled into the sheets, as if his body was getting ready to launch itself up and out of his room.

He spent several seconds controlling his ragged breathing- and that, at least, made sense. He did have several broken ribs, and the anxiety humming under his skin wasn't helping matters.

Still, there was nothing unusual happening in his building or the street outside, and he hadn't had any nightmares for once, so there was no reason for the way his heartbeat was still a little too fast.

_"Make it stop please god make it stop make it stop make it stop make it stop."_

He'd finally gotten himself under control when he heard the pleading. It was soft and desperate, and so incredibly quiet.

 _"Please please please please please._ "

Her voice cracked with pain, and it set Matt's teeth on edge to hear it. He was having a hard time finding where she was, though, and he suspected he might have a mild concussion because he also couldn't hear anything around her, just her voice.

_"It'll be ok, just get up and go. You're ok, you're ok, you're ok-"_

She kept repeating it over and over again, and he could finally hear her surroundings. She was alone, which confused him a bit, until he realised who exactly he was listening in on. The woman from last night.

_"Oh god, I'm out of my meds. This day is going to suck."_

He clutched at the sheets a little tighter when he heard her start crying, soft and careful like she didn't have the energy for anything more.

Matt continued to listen to her for several long minutes, not quite sure what was wrong, before he remembered her mentioning that she'd have a migraine the next day. He winced, knowing he was the cause for her pain.

It was several minutes more before he realised that he'd woken himself up because he had been subconsciously listening to her, and he sighed, knowing he'd have to begin filtering her out. It was too easy to accidentally listen in on her, the same way he'd done to his neighbors when he'd first moved in. All those people living next to him, and he'd had to spend an entire month learning to filter them out and treat them as white noise.

She was still crying, drinking her third cup of coffee and sluggishly putting on her shoes, still chanting _you're ok, you're ok, you're ok._

He really should start filtering her now.

"Foggy. Foggy. Foggy. Fogg-" Matt fumbled for his cell phone, answering it groggily.

"You got any plans for the day? I was thinking of going to that new bakery that opened up, and thought to myself- who freakishly always knows what the best pastries are going to be? Or when something is stale before wasting money on buying it?" When Matt didn't respond right away, Foggy continued, "didn't think that'd be a hard question. I'm talking about you. Wanna go?"

"Yeah, yeah that sounds nice Foggy. I don't think I'll be up to it until later today, though. I overstretched my ribs last night at the gym and getting out of bed is going to be a production."

"What do I keep telling you man? You've got a good enough thing going when it comes to the chicks, you don't need to add on being perfectly chiseled too."

"Who says it's for women? Maybe I just want to finally be able to body-check the bicycle carriers that keep knocking me down," Matt said, smiling into the phone.

"Alright, yeah, that sounds like a worthy goal. Go forth with your crusade of spite workouts. I'll swing by your place around three, that good for you?"

"I think I'll have managed to drag myself down the stairs by then."

"Bye Matt. You need me to bring an ice pack over?"

"No, thanks, I'm good. Bye Foggy."

By the time the conversation was over, she had already left.

____

Work went about as well as could be expected. They'd recently had to cut back on the number of free print pages everyone got due to a grant they relied on falling through. So on top of having a killer migraine, she'd spent her day arguing with people.

"Yes ma'am, I know last month you were able to get fifty for free, but unfortunately we don't have the funding anymore-"

"Don't have the funding? How much could it possibly cost? A ream of paper is what, five dollars? It's gotta cost less than a hundred a month. Are you telling me that you're so bad at budgeting that you can't even swing a hundred a month on paper? What a waste of taxpayer money."

"Ma'am, we spend more than three hundred a month on paper, which is about thirty-six thousand dollars a year. We, as a library, decided that programming and books for the community was more important than providing a service that people can get elsewhere."

"But it costs money everywhere else!"

"Yes it does. And if you'd like, I have a list here of locations and their average prices-"

"Fuck you, this is ridiculous! You can't just deny me a public service!"

"I'm not denying you anything, ma'am, I'm simply letting you know of a new policy change. And if you continue to curse at me, you will have to leave the library for the day."

"I can't believe this!"

She'd had to deal with similar conversations her whole day, and at four when she finally had her lunch break she was almost too tired to move. But she'd forgotten her lunch that morning, and she was hungry, so she sucked it up and walked across the street to her favorite pho place. Well, more like down the block and across the street, but it was all semantics, really.

It was on her way back that her day went from horrible to pure hell.

She was waiting for the crosswalk to turn, scrolling through her phone to see if Vanessa had texted her back yet, when one of their regular library customers made an appearance.

He'd been banned from the library for a week last Thursday, and there were still several days yet before his exclusion was up. He'd been talking loudly on his phone, and when they'd asked him to take it outside he had completely lost it. There'd been a lot of cursing, several threats, and an overturned chair. Frankly, she was disgusted that he hadn't been permanently banned, but the final decision wasn't up to her.

They stood quietly next to each other, but while she pretended not to notice him at all, he stared right at her. Not knowing how to properly handle this situation, and feeling incredibly unnerved, she decided now was the best time to call her health insurance back about the denial letter they'd sent her. Maybe if she was completely occupied, he'd get bored and wander off.

So while she continued to wait at the crosswalk, she also impatiently waited on hold with her insurance company. Yet still, he stood there staring at her. And still, she refused to acknowledge him.

The crosswalk finally started beeping at them, and she shakily began to cross the street before even making sure that no one was going to run the light. He was barely half a step behind her, crowding her space, but she refused to speed up, not wanting him to know she was intimidated.

He followed her the whole way to the library, and just before she went to step inside, he roughly bumped into her, causing her lunch to splash all over the sidewalk, spilling onto her shoes and up her tights. He continued to walk down the sidewalk, for all the world looking like he hadn't been following her on purpose, and had merely been walking in the same direction as her by some coincidence.

With a curse on her tongue, she went to pick up her now wasted lunch, which was of course the exact moment she finally reached an actual person on the other end of her phone call.

"Feel free to call us back when you're willing to have an actual conversation, ma'am," the person snippily said, before hanging up on her.

She was left standing outside the library doors, with soggy tights and a dead dial tone, no lunch and no information about the denied claim. She pinched her nose tightly, looking into the front doors and watching an argument occuring at the front desk. She had four more hours of this, and her migraine had only eased up just enough for her think that maybe death wasn't her only option.

She almost cried in relief when her shift was finally over at eight. Her entire lunch break had been spent on hold with her insurance company, and she didn't leave the conversation with good news. Which, based on her day, made sense.

While she was relieved to be headed home, she was also incredibly warry after the encounter she'd had earlier in the day, and so she was thankful that she wouldn't be taking her usual route home today- she was stopping off at the pharmacy to pick up a refill for her migraine meds. Still, the walk home afterwards was spent in nervous anticipation, anxiety crawling up her spine and making her shoulders feel stiff, which hadn't helped her migraine at all despite the pill she had taken before even leaving the pharmacist.

Once she finally reached her apartment, she felt all the stress of the last two days catch up with her. Her body slumped in on itself, and it was difficult to coordinate her thoughts with her body, so she spent longer than normal trying to jiggle open her sticky lock.

Finally closing the front door behind her, she slowly slid to the floor and buried her face in her knees, breathing deeply in an attempt to control herself. When her phone chirped at her she lifted her head just enough to read the text message Leanne had sent her.

_Hey! I know you've been busy all day and probably couldn't call, so I just wanted you to know that Bret was discharged a couple hours after you left, and he's doing fine! Thanks so much for waiting with me and calming me down. I know fixing a broken arm it isn't the worst surgery to get, but having you there really helped. Love you best!_

Shit. She'd been so caught up in herself and the drama of having a terrifying masked stranger in her home that she'd forgotten all about her best friend. How could she be such a horrible person? How do you forget about someone who had been a friend for more than twenty years?

And just like that she was sobbing, unable to do anything else with the stress that felt like it had permanently settled in her bones. It was deep, painful sobbing, and she felt like she was horribly overreacting but she couldn't stop herself. She really needed to get ahold of herself- yes the last couple days had been stressful, but really, crying this often wasn't going to solve anything.

 _Mrrp_.

"I know. I know I'm being ridiculous, it's really not all that bad," she responded to her cat, finally calming down several minutes later. "I'll just eat some peanut m&ms then go to bed."

Slowly stretching out, she made as if to stand up, but winced at the migraine that had come back full-force due to her crying "maybe also take like twenty ibuprofen pm. It'll work out."

She continued to sit on the floor, quietly crying, for close to twenty minutes before she had enough energy to stand up and shuffle to her bedroom. She quite literally passed out several minutes later, not even having the strength to take her pho-soaked tights off.

____

Matt's day had improved significantly the moment he met up with Foggy. His friend spent the entire day trying to talk Matt into being closed every Monday, without success.

"Come on Matt! Isn't this great? Wouldn't you like to spend every Monday enjoying ourselves while the sad-sack crowd has to go to work. I don't want to be part of the sad-sack crowd anymore, Matt."

"Foggy, we're only closed today because they're fumigating. Besides, I thought you wanted to make money, and you can't do that if we're closed three days a week."

The new bakery had been delicious, and he'd enjoyed flirting with the owner. She was a delightful seventy-year-old who had told him he was full of shit. Foggy had exasperatedly told him later that she had clearly been a pin-up girl in her youth, the same amused frustration he had whenever Matt decided to be just a shade too friendly.

Headed home just after seven, he decided to read up on past cases involving similar circumstances to Karen's. She'd been acting a bit off lately, and he suspected whatever she was doing might require a lawyer down the line. Their lack of clients allowed him plenty of opportunity to prepare himself.

For the second time that day, he was once again jerked into awareness by the sound of crying. Though calling it crying was really an understatement, this sounded like full-body sobbing. The kind that came with a life falling apart.

Realizing who it was pretty quickly, Matt groaned in frustration at himself. He'd thought he had managed to filter her out, he'd heard nothing from her when he'd arrived home past seven. Yet here he was, shortly after eight at night, listening to her cry yet again.

This didn't sound like it was just over a migraine, though. It didn't have the same sound as earlier, when she had been silently crying over how much pain she was in. If he concentrated hard enough, he could hear the way she curled tighter into herself, the soft grind of the bones in her hands as she clutched them together tightly. The way her breath caught in her throat and never completely filled her lungs. This was a breakdown, and he felt like a voyeur by listening in.

_"I know. I know I'm being ridiculous, it's really not all that bad."_

She snapped back to herself quickly, leaving Matt frowning over her words and wondering just what had happened to her during the day. It wasn't his business though, and he needed to stop eavesdropping on her. The last thing she needed was him being a party to her private life.

_"Maybe take like twenty ibuprofen pm. It'll work out."_

Resigning himself to the long month of work it would take to properly filter her out, he decided to spend the rest of his night meditating. Before he'd properly started, he heard her fall into bed, still crying even in her sleep.

____

The first time Matt entered the library he felt like a stalker. A feeling that was made all the worse by the fact that he was, in fact, being a stalker. He didn't think that having good intentions really allowed him the privilege of the moral high ground in this situation.

He'd woken up that morning, and after several hours had gone by he'd realized that he had successfully blocked her out. It had been a pleasant surprise, and he had high hopes that it meant he wouldn't need to spend so long actively working towards filtering her.

Only he'd started to get worried shortly before lunch. She'd been doing terrible yesterday, what if she had actually taken too many ibuprofen? Or her migraine had messed with her balance and she had fallen down the stairs? What if she hadn't been paying attention to her surroundings- something she did even when she was healthy- and had been mugged on her way to work? And he knew she'd opened her windows again, so that was a whole other thing that very easily could've been a problem.

In short, he was worried that he hadn't heard her this morning because something had happened, and not because he was getting better at filtering out unwanted sounds. He was a bit surprised by the level of worry he carried, but he was just as concerned for Claire, and he did owe her for helping him.  
So here he was, on an early lunch break, carefully making his way into the only library in Hell's Kitchen.

She wasn't at the front desk when he arrived, and the library was surprisingly busy enough to cause him difficulty in pinpointing her, so he'd asked to be escorted to a nearby chair where he could listen for her.

_"Mica! Good job being a banana today!"_

What?

_"Alright everyone, story time is almost over- we've got just enough time for one more song, or one more book- which do we want to do?"_

_"Banana song!"_

_"Again? Are you all sure? Ok, ok, one more time. Let's get our banana peels ready- wave 'em up hiiiiiiigh, wave 'em down looooow-"_

Right. She'd mentioned that there was another Mica in her story time, he'd thought she was just trying to be personable when she'd said it. Apparently not.

She was doing fine, and he had worried over nothing, though he could tell she was still in pain because of how stiff she was holding herself. Still, she was fine, so he could go eat an actual lunch on his break instead of sitting in the library.

_"And now it's time toooooooo go bananas! Go bananas! Go go bananas!"_

He continued to sit in his chair, twisting his cain in his hands while he listened to her finish the song. Her lack of embarrassment while she swung around wildly and sang slightly off-key was amusing, and it was a much more pleasant thing to listen in on than the argument happening at the front desk; something about printing limits.

_"Oh man. You guys are getting really good with your lefts and rights, I'm super impressed. Unfortunately story time is over today. Show of hands, how many of you are planning on gettings books before leaving? Wow! That's a lot of books getting checked out! I'll meet you all upstairs and help you check out when you're ready."_

There was a chaos of sound as twenty kids grabbed their stuff and rushed up the stairs- Matt frowned to himself at this, he hadn't realised she was downstairs and he didn't like that it had escaped his notice- and in the noise he temporarily lost track of her. Once the kids had all massed in the children's area on the opposite side from him, he was able to hear her again.

He wasn't surprised that she was singing, and he thought it might be the same song she'd been listening to in her car the other night. This time, though, she seemed to know the lyrics, instead of haphazardly guessing at them.

He forced himself to stop listening in, once again reminding himself that he was supposed to be trying to filter her out, not follow her around. Still, he continued to sit in his chair, letting himself get lost in the goings-on of the library.

There was a young woman upstairs stealing one of the books, and a kid down the way arguing with his parents over the book he wanted. He could hear the employees in back gossiping about a customer they all hated, and could smell the burnt TV dinner someone was throwing away in the break room. There seemed to be a never-ending printer whir, and it felt almost hypnotic in its constant background noise.

"Hey Olivia! How'd story time go?" The woman at the front desk, the one who had helped him find a chair, broke through his thoughts.

"It went well, they all actually wiggled left when I asked them to, even Page who keeps getting lefts and rights mixed up. There was a new family here today, too, the kid had the cutest coke bottle glasses."

Olivia. It felt like another invasion of her privacy, knowing her name without her telling him. He shouldn't be at her work, he shouldn't be listening in to her going about her life, he shouldn't be spending this much energy worrying about her. The guilt of it constricted his throat, and he stood to leave.

He didn't have enough time to side-step her before she was running into him, the books she had been carrying falling to the floor with a loud thump.

"Oh no, I am so sorry! I should've been paying attention, I was just so focused on getting these books in order that I didn't see you standing there. Are you ok?"

She was already picking up the fallen books, and he kneeled on the ground to help- spreading his hands out on the ground and searching for the nearest one, trying to appear as if he didn't know exactly where all ten of the books were.

"It's fine, I stood up rather suddenly," he said, standing up while clutching four of the books. It was true, he had stood up rather suddenly, but he hadn't expected her to be walking so close to the chair he was sitting in- there was a whole stretch of library for her to walk in.

"Thank you so much, and again, I'm really sorry," she made to reach for the books he was holding, not seeming to realise he was blind. He continued to hold them in his arms, looking just to the right of where she was standing.

"I have a question, if you've got the time?" he heard himself say.

"Of course, how can I help?" He could hear the fatigue in her voice, and felt the familiar guilt creep back up his throat. He shouldn't be keeping her from doing her job, just because he couldn't stop worrying about her. All day he'd wondered if her migraine was gone, if she'd made it to work ok, what had caused her to break down the night before, why she had left so early in the morning and arrived home so late at night.

There was no true reason to be worried about these things. Except. She kept her windows open, even after a masked stranger that she was terrified of had been in her apartment. She showed up to work the next day, even knowing that a potentially dangerous man knew where she worked. She drove down back alleys in the wrong part of town and two in the morning. She was so unobservant that a blind man could quite literally sneak up on her. The fact that he knew exactly where she was wasn't important.

He worried about Claire, too, especially since there was a strong possibility that the Russians could find out where she lived. The difference was that Claire didn't spend her nights making long strings of questionable decisions. True, she had let him into her home, but she was also an ER nurse who knew first-hand what he did to criminals. She wasn't helping him purely on gut instinct and a vague story she'd heard about in the news. Unlike Claire, Olivia had let a potential kidnapper into her car. Unlike Claire, it wasn't Olivia's job to save people.

"How do I get a library card?"

And just like that, Matt knew he'd be stopping by during some of his lunch breaks. Probably more lunch breaks than he'd be willing to admit to.


End file.
